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  “Still, a reporter from New York is down here investigating. He wants to talk to you. He thinks a story about a car owned by a New York politician crashing and ruining your life would be front page news.

  “If you talk to him, they'll use you to sell newspapers. Photos of you lying in a hospital bed will be used by his opponent in political ads.

  “I don't think you want that; to see your life story in the New York Times.

  “But it could happen. The reporter is eager to meet with you. He's been trying to get up here to talk, but hospital security has been blocking him.

  “He hasn't given up though. He's using the internet trying to figure out who Tony Mendoza is and where he lives. That won't lead him anywhere. Tony Mendoza doesn't exist. Except on the fake Florida driver's license you were carrying.”

  I nodded.

  Learning about the accident was a shock to my system. Losing Bob was even worse. I needed to get out of the hospital and go find him. But I didn't have the strength to do it. Not yet.

  I closed my eyes, and all that was around me slowly faded away.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke again in darkness. This time I wasn't alone. Someone else was in the room with me.

  I opened my eyes to see a young woman holding my hand. It wasn't Abby.

  In the darkness, back-lit by the blue light of the machines that monitored my condition, she looked like an angel. It made me wonder if I had died. Maybe I was in heaven. Or maybe the other place. Either way, I wanted to find out.

  I croaked out the words, “Are you an angel?”

  She nodded and in a calming voice said, “I am. I'm here to see you through.”

  I couldn't believe what she was saying. Was I really dead?

  I had to find out for sure, so I tried to ask, “Are you a real angel? From heaven?”

  I'm not sure she understood what I was asking. And I may not have understood her answer to my first question.

  Still holding my hand, she said, “I didn't mean to wake you. I'm Angela, here to take your vitals. You feel okay?”

  Her answer confirmed I wasn't dead, at least not yet. I was happy about that. There were still things I wanted to do, and being dead would make that more difficult.

  Angela repeated her question. “You feel okay?”

  I nodded and croaked out, “My throat hurts. I want to go home.”

  She looked at her watch and said, “Yeah, that's what we all want. To go home.”

  As my vision cleared, I could see that she looked tired. Maybe she had worked a double shift. Or maybe being a nurse on a floor where too many people died had that effect.

  My thoughts were too jumbled to think about why she was tired. I was tired too. I’d been in bed for a week and shouldn't have been. I wanted to go home.

  Except I didn't have a home. Abby had said it was destroyed in the wreck, along with everything I owned. I'd lost it all, except my life.

  The nurse probably didn't know I'd lost my home and all my worldly possessions. She might have cared if she knew, but I wasn't going to tell her. It hurt to talk, so I said nothing.

  She pointed to a large bandage on my arm. It wasn't there the night before. It was something new.

  “We've removed your IV but left the butterfly in place in case we need to hook you up again. You're still on the halter to monitor your heart. It's portable so you can get up and walk to the bathroom if you want.

  “If you do go to the bathroom, expect to feel some burning down there when you pee. They pulled your catheter out last night while you slept. Sometimes it’ll cause a bit of irritation.”

  I nodded and croaked out, “So, I have to get up to pee?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, if you need to pee, get up and go to the bathroom. Don't do it in the bed. It makes our job a lot harder if you do.

  “When you go to the bathroom, be careful. It'll take your body a few minutes to adjust. If you feel wobbly or need help, use the call button.”

  I started to ask if she'd help me pee. It was going to be a joke. But before I could say anything, she slipped a thermometer into my mouth.

  Two minutes later, she pulled it out and said, “Ninety-nine. You're getting better.”

  She put the thermometer away and picked up the computer tablet that was stored in a caddy at the foot of the bed. She nodded as she read it then typed a few notes. When she was done, she turned to me and said, "Breakfast is in an hour. You'll want to try to eat it because it might be your last meal.”

  “What? My last meal?”

  She smiled. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. You're not dying and it won't be your last meal. It's just that I think they're going to send you home today, and it'll be your last meal here. Not your last meal ever.

  “Of course, it all depends on what the doctor says. He might send you home or keep you here for another few days. It's up to him.”

  The 'sending me home' option was what I wanted. Hearing the nurse say it was possible gave me some hope. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy my stay in the hospital. I'd been in a coma most of the time, so I didn't know whether I had or not.

  I did know that if the doctor was sending me home it meant he thought I was well enough that I didn't need to be in the hospital. That was good news. I could go home.

  Except my home no longer existed. It had been destroyed in the accident. I didn't really have a home to go to.

  Abby had said she'd found a place where I could stay. It might not be home, but if it had a roof, running water and a toilet, it would be better than being stuck in a hospital bed. Still, I would miss my angel of the night, Angela.

  As promised, breakfast arrived an hour later. Soft scrambled eggs, peach yogurt, and cherry jello. With apple juice on the side.

  The kitchen must have gotten the message about my throat. No solid food for me. Just the soft, easy to swallow stuff.

  I didn't care. I was hungry and ate it all, even the jello.

  After the breakfast tray was taken away, the same doctor I had seen the day before came to check on me. Like the nurse, he looked tired. But he smiled and asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  I sat up in bed, trying to look like I was feeling better than I really was. I wanted him to believe I was well enough to go home, so I said, “I feel pretty good. A lot better than yesterday.”

  He nodded then picked up the tablet at the foot of the bed and scanned the notes the nurse had left.

  He looked it at it for a moment and then turned to me.

  “You thought she was an angel? Really?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, we've had you on some heavy drugs and Nurse Angela does have some angelic qualities. I won't fault you for that.

  “How do you feel otherwise?”

  It was the same question he'd asked before. Maybe he didn't hear my first answer. Or maybe it was a test. If I gave the wrong answer, they might want to keep me for a few more days. I didn't want that. So I said, “I feel pretty good. I even ate all my breakfast.”

  The doctor smiled. “You ate the jello? Really? No one ever eats the jello. It must be the drugs you're on.”

  I shrugged. “I was hungry. And it wasn't that bad. I just wished there'd been more eggs.”

  The doctor nodded, looked at the notes on the tablet and entered a few of his own. He put the tablet back in the caddy and said, “Looks like you are on the road to recovery. All your vitals check out, and the x-rays look good. No broken bones. No vital organs damaged. Other than some muscle soreness, you should start to feel better.

  “You do have a concussion, but there doesn't seem to be any bleeding or swelling. Do you have a headache?”

  I smiled, trying my best to look well. “No, no headache, I feel fine.”

  The doctor shook his head. “That's what everyone says. They say they feel fine because they want to get out of here. But usually they're hiding something.

  He paused then said, “I understand, you want to go home. All of us do. But it's important for yo
u to tell me how you really feel.

  “So, let me guess. You have a slight headache. Your throat hurts, and based on the drugs we've had you on, you feel tired, even sleepy. Am I right?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah, sore throat, slight headache and sleepy. Does that mean you're going to keep me here for a few more days?”

  The doctor laughed. “Why does everyone want to get out of here so quickly? Here you've got it all. Pretty nurses at your beck and call, healthy meals catered three times a day, and if you stay long enough, a sponge bath from one of our angels.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, this is a regular Hilton. I'll remember that the next time I need a place to stay.”

  The doctor smiled. “Good to see you have a sense of humor.”

  He continued, “Your headache and sore throat are to be expected. Nothing unusual about that.

  “We've had you on sedatives for five days. Being sleepy is also to be expected. Any other issues?”

  I shook my head. This time I was telling the truth. There were no other issues. At least none that I was aware of.

  The doctor smiled and said, “Good. It looks like we're going to send you home today. But you have to promise you’ll take it easy. You've had a concussion, and we want you to follow post-concussion protocol.

  “That means you need to avoid stressful situations. No TV, no computer, and no driving for at least a month. You can read if you like, but not for extended periods.

  “Light exercise like walking is okay. No running or anything that might jar your brain. No alcohol. And no sex.

  “For the first few days, don't be surprised if you get nauseous while riding in a car. That's normal. So is being sleepy. You'll find yourself dozing off a little more than you're used to.”

  He pulled the tablet from the caddy and entered a few more notes. Then he returned his attention back to me. “Your nurse will be in here to take out the butterfly and remove the EKG patches from your chest. It might sting a bit, but if you're nice to the nurse, she'll be gentle.

  “When she gets you unhooked, she'll give you your recovery plan and a prescription for pain.

  “Later on, after you leave the hospital, if you get double vision that lasts for more than a few minutes or your head starts ringing like a bell, we'll want you to come back here, pronto.

  “You understand?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. No driving, no computers and no TV for a month. Come back to the hospital if I get double vision or my head hurts. Anything else?”

  He shook his head. “No, just take it easy for a while. Do you have someone here to take you home?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, my wife.”

  The doctor patted my hand and said, “Good. You were lucky. I've seen the video; the fact that you made it out alive is a miracle. Don't do anything to mess it up.”

  He turned and left the room.

  An hour later, Abby showed up wearing the same clothes she had worn a day earlier. She was smiling and carrying a bag from Bealls.

  I should have told her how nice she looked, but I didn't. Instead, I asked, “You've been shopping?”

  She nodded. “Yes, for you. I didn't want you to leave this place wearing that hospital gown with the split down the back. Might cause a scene out in the parking lot. I bought you some new clothes. Pants, shirts, socks, and undies.

  “I wanted to get shoes, but didn't know your size, so you'll be stuck with the hospital slippers for the time being.”

  She took a seat in the chair across from me and began pulling clothes out of the bag. Like she said, pants, shirts, underwear, and socks.

  Seeing the new clothes reminded me of the extent of my loss. Everything I owned, including my clothes, was gone.

  According to the doctor, I was lucky.

  The thing was I sure didn't feel that way.

  Chapter Nine

  I couldn't change into my new clothes until the nurse came back to unhook me from the IV and EKG patches. The doctor had said she'd be in within an hour. But an hour had passed, and she hadn't shown. She was late.

  Ninety minutes later, there was a tap on the door. A balding middle-aged man dressed in brown slacks, white shirt, and a blue tie, walked in with a clipboard.

  His first words were, “Mr. Mendoza, they tell me you're getting out of here today. I know you're happy to hear that. But before you go, we need to take care of a few things.

  “Since we didn't get your insurance info when you came in, we need to get it now. Do you have your card with you?”

  I had insurance. The policy papers and card were in the top drawer of the table beside my bed. In the motorhome. I figured they were safe there.

  That was before the wreck. The card, along with the envelope that had the policy in it, probably had been destroyed. I still had insurance. But I didn't have a card to prove it. If I could get to a computer, I could call up the policy and print out a new one. To do that, I'd need a new computer and a new printer. Mine were destroyed in the wreck.

  I didn't feel like burdening the insurance man with my story, so I just said, “I have insurance, but I don't have the card with me. It was destroyed in the accident.”

  He nodded. “I can believe that. I've seen the video. Not much left of your motorhome. But you do have insurance, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Full coverage.”

  “Good. We'll need the policy details so we can process your bill. You can either call our billing office or bring the policy in person. Either way, we'd like you to get it to us within ten days. If you don't, the billing department will send you the bill with the full amount due.”

  He turned the clipboard around and moved it toward me. “I need you to sign where I've highlighted in yellow. It says you'll pay, even if your insurance doesn't.”

  I looked at the form. Signing it would mean I'd be on the hook for what was probably going to be a sizable amount. Eight days in the hospital, starting with the emergency room, followed by six days in intensive care. Add to that all the tests and doctors’ visits, and it would be expensive.

  At least fifty thousand. Probably a lot more.

  My insurance should cover most of it. I'd still have to deal with the deductible. It'd be at least five thousand depending on how they classified my care.

  Still, paying just the deductible was far better than carrying the full load by myself.

  But it didn't seem fair. I hadn't done anything wrong. The guy who had crashed into my motorhome and put me in the hospital had. He should be the one paying my bill, not me or my insurance company.

  According to Abby, the police didn't know who the driver was. He had run from the scene and left me holding the bag. It looked like it was going to be a big one.

  I shook my head and picked up the pen to sign the form. But before I could even write the first letter of my name, Abby reached over, took my hand and said, “Tony, you need any help?”

  I looked up at her, and she mouthed the words, “Tony Mendoza.”

  She was reminding me not to sign with my real name. She wanted me to use the name the hospital had mistakenly entered when I was checked in.

  Signing with my real name would lead to a lot of questions. The kind I didn't want to answer. Like why was I carrying a fake Florida driver’s license and where did I get it?

  Those were questions better left unasked.

  I nodded at Abby, and she released my hand. I signed as Tony Mendoza and handed the clipboard back to the insurance man.

  He looked at the signature, nodded and flipped to another page. “There are four pages of care information provided by your treating physician. Signing these will mean you understand the instructions and will follow the advice once you are discharged. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Good, just sign where it's highlighted in yellow.”

  I flipped through the pages and signed each one. When I gave the clipboard back to him, he handed me copies of my care instructions. “Be sure to read these carefully. If you have any questions, call the docto
r’s nurse. Her number is on the top of each page.”

  He turned to Abby. “You're his wife, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. The doctor wrote him a prescription for pain meds. Get it filled on your way home. Make sure your husband takes them as prescribed. If you have any questions or if anything comes up, don't hesitate to call.”

  Abby nodded again, showing that she understood.

  The insurance man pulled out what looked like a small pager and pressed a button. He put the device away and said, “Your discharge nurse will be in shortly.”

  He handed Abby his card. “As soon as you can, please call with his insurance information. If you can't find it, call and let us know so we can make other arrangements.”

  He started to leave but stopped and turned back to me and said, “I've seen the video. You're lucky to be alive. I'm glad to see you lived through it.”

  He gave me a thumbs up and left the room.

  Almost as soon as the door closed behind him, the nurse who had talked to me earlier came into the room pushing a stainless-steel cart. She walked over to my bed and said, “I'm going to unhook you from the machines. The EKG first.”

  She had me sit up and pull the front of my hospital gown down to my waist. As I sat there bare chested, I looked down and saw six wires leading to one-inch square pads that had been stuck above my belly.

  Before she pulled the first one off, she said, “This is going to hurt a little. It'll feel like pulling off a Band-Aid that’s been on for a week.”

  She grabbed the edge of the pad and pulled it off with one quick motion. A handful of my chest hair and a thin layer of skin came off with it.

  It hurt like heck, and I winced in pain.

  Behind the nurse, I could hear Abby stifle a laugh. I looked up to see she was smiling. She knew it hurt, but she was happy we would soon be leaving the hospital.

  When the nurse pulled the second pad, I was ready. It hurt like the first, but I wasn't going to show it. I just smiled and said, “Two down, four to go.”

  She pulled the other four just as quickly as the first two. Each one hurt, the sticky pads didn't want to give up their hold without grabbing a bit of skin and hair.